


Half Past Midnight

by badwolfrun



Category: CSI: Crime Scene Investigation
Genre: Angst, Episode: s05e24 Grave Danger Part 1, Episode: s05e24-25 Grave Danger, Gen, Introspection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-24
Updated: 2018-12-21
Packaged: 2019-08-28 11:22:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 12,908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16722411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/badwolfrun/pseuds/badwolfrun
Summary: Nick Stokes was buried underneath the earth for approximately 24 hours. Grissom had told him that after the ordeal, but he didn't need to. Nick kept track himself.POV of Nick's time underground in Grave Danger, and some added aftermath.





	1. 10:55 PM - 12:30 AM

**Author's Note:**

> Timeline is a bit rough, as they really only give the time that Nick was taken (around 11), so I've tried to keep the times as close to what would be realistic.

It’s five to eleven, a cool breeze begins to descend from the night sky. It doesn’t bother him, as he exits his vehicle with his camera in hand. He grabs his kit and walks towards the crime scene, spitting into a small puddle. The song he was listening to in the car continues on in his head, though it finally ends as he speaks to the officer on scene.

The crime scene is a wide, open area. He begins to focus on the “body,” laying out the evidence markers and taking photos. 

“Have any idea how long it's going to take you to get this stuff out of here?” the officer asks, as the putrid stench of body parts lingers in the air around them. 

“Well, I can't move the, uh...the "body" until the coroner releases the scene. It's a busy night. It's probably gonna take a while, man.” 

The officer asks to step away, obviously perturbed by the smell. “Take your time,” he told him. He’s in no rush, which means the officer shouldn’t be in any rush. He takes out some gum and begins to chew. It’s going to be a long, slow night, what could possibly go wrong?

\------------------

The world is dark, but the sound of tires on pavement and the purr of a car engine hums beneath him. His head rolls, and he can feel the soft fibers brush against his lips. A red tint glows through his eyelids. He finds the energy to open his eyes for a brief moment before they fall shut again. He feels heavy, time seems to move slower. He feels like he has lost time, has it been hours, maybe even days since he was last at that alley?

He tries to sit up, but is unable to use his hands for leverage. They are bound together at the wrists, his fingers only seem to touch the other hand. He tries to break his wrists apart, but a thin band--maybe a zip tie is binding them together. He tries to look behind him, to get a better look at the situation but is unable to. He looks at his surroundings, the blur in his vision is starting to fade. He’s in the trunk of a car, possibly an SUV based on the space he’s allowed to move in. He tries to quiet himself, limit his movements as the car begins to slow down. 

Using his legs, he turns his body and is able to lift himself up against the back of the seats. The car comes to a stop and he hears the opening of a door. He lifts up his feet, if his abductor opens the trunk door, he’ll try to kick him away and escape. 

He waits, counting down the seconds as the beep of the “door open” alarm ticks away. He can’t hear any movement or see any figures through the back window, where could the abductor be---

\------------------

He begins to stir once again, the sounds of the car are gone. A soft whirring noise waves through his right ear. He lifts up his arms, which are no longer bound together. He lifts up his head, but it almost instantly bounces against a hard surface. He drops his head back down, touching his forehead with his hand. He tries to sit up again, and is again stopped by the hard surface in front of him. There is a faint green glow surrounding him, but it is hard to make out his surroundings in the dim light. 

He pauses for a moment, trying to focus but his vision is still blurry--he must have been drugged again. He again tries to move, to sit up, but the space surrounding him is tight. His arms and legs meet the same block that his head did. He winces as he searches for the source of the green glow, and feels something move against his armpit. The glow was right next to him, he picks it up and uses the glow stick to examine his surroundings. 

He lifts his chest up to look towards his feet, there seems to be a round circle between his feet, and another one that has a grated cover to his right. 

He glances at the watch on his wrist, it’s half past midnight. 

He lost almost an hour and a half, he groans as he uses his hands to find what lies on his left side. 

It’s his gun. He checks his ammo, still fully loaded. He re-assembles the gun and sighs in relief that it wasn’t used. 

He continues to observe his surroundings, as the effects of the drugging continue to fade away. He seems to be surrounded by the same surface, his knuckles knock against it and it feels like glass, but tougher. He waves the glow stick closer to the surface on his left side, and can see what lies behind the surface. 

His heart sinks to his feet, his breathing becomes faster, deeper. Dirt lies behind his left side, his right side, the top of the box, the bottom near his feet, all sides of his enclosure are surrounded in dirt. He’s been put in a box, presumably underground. 

His chest rises quickly as adrenaline begins to flow through his body, he sets down his right arm, and find that something was left there, too. His hand fumbles around, trying to grasp it. Using the glow stick, he is finally able to find the object and bring it closer to him for examination. It’s a tape recorder. 

He examines it, to see if there is any sort of label or indication of what the tape might contain. Has somebody been recording his panicked breathing, his movements? Was Nigel Crane released from prison, or did he escape? Is the tape blank, with the intention that he would use it to document his experiences? Or is there a message on the tape, someone telling him who took him, why he’s here, maybe that this is some sort of prank or cruel test?

He presses the play button, and stares at his green reflection as he listens. He doesn’t recognize the voice. 

“Hi, CSI guy. You wondering why you're here? Because you followed the evidence. Because that's what CSIs do. So breathe quick, breathe slow, put your gun in your mouth and pull the trigger. Any way you like, you're going to die here...Okay.”

The tape finishes with a click, and his whole body begins to shake. The full gravity of the situation begins to set in, the drugs have completely worn off. He needs to find a way to escape--and fast. 

He struggles against the top of the box, maybe it will budge if he uses both arms.

It doesn’t work.

He flips his body over, maybe the bottom of the box has some sort of latch.

It doesn’t work.

He tries to lift the top of the box again, maybe the dirt is an illusion and he’s not actually underground?

It still doesn’t work.

He begins to cry out, maybe someone can hear him if he screams loud enough? 

But as his screams turn into sobs, he knows he could be buried anywhere in the vast Nevada (hell, maybe even beyond Nevada?) landscape, and there’s a good chance nobody will ever find him. The man on the tape is right, he is going to die here.


	2. 12:35 AM - 1:30 PM

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After thirteen and a half hours of the light turning on and off, Nick decides he's had enough.

The skin surrounding his eyes is damp, a throbbing sensation beats at the top of his head. His chest is still rising and falling rapidly. He tries to slow his breathing, but a small sting of adrenaline teases his body into staying in panic mode. He tries to convince himself that this is just a nightmare, soon he’d wake up and find that he was at home, safe and sound in his soft bed. 

He closes his eyes, thinking about falling asleep. Maybe it would pass the time until the team finds him--dream or not, they would be looking for him...right?

He’s just about to drift off when suddenly, the whirring noise comes to a halt. He hears a click, and the green glow is gone, overtaken by a bright flash of light. There’s an eerie silence, broken only by the sharp breath he takes in surprise as he drops the glow stick he was previously clutching. He lifts his hands in front of his face, it’s as if a bright light was shining into his face. He quickly glimpses at the source, it’s coming from the bottom of the box between his legs. 

With the new source of light, he’s able to get a crystal clear look at his surrounding. He suddenly feels sobered, as the effects of the drugs have completely worn off.

He had hoped the drugs had tricked him into thinking he was trapped when he wasn’t. He had hoped that the limited light source had tricked his eyes into seeing what had appeared to be dirt surrounding him. He had hoped that his fate wasn’t the same as Uma Thurman’s in that damn movie he can’t seem to remember the title of at the moment. 

It’s now twelve thirty-five in the morning, and he is absolutely buried alive. 

He tries again in vain to open the lid to his coffin, but it’s no use. He keeps thrashing, screaming, sobbing, but after another minute and a half he realizes that this is real. With one last pounding of his fist on the box, he forces himself to take a few deep breaths. 

“Okay,” he tells himself, an echo of that final word on the tape that told him he was going to die here. But unbeknownst to the criminal that did this to him, Nick Stokes does not give up that easily. He was going to get out of this box and breath the fresh Nevada air once again. 

He takes inventory of what he has to work with. He has a fully loaded gun, a recorded message from his abductor, a tape recorder and four glow sticks, one fully lit. Now that there is another light source, he won’t need to crack open another glow stick for a while. 

He digs into his pockets, he can feel the last piece of gum stuffed in his left back pocket. He has a pair of latex gloves in his front right pocket. His other pockets are empty, the abductor must have removed his cell phone and wallet. 

He turns to the source of the whirring noise that he had previously ignored in his panic, there’s a circular grated vent next to him, he can feel a gentle breeze of air flowing though. Maybe if he could remove the grating, pause the fan, he could scream for help. He tries to remove the vent, but finds that it’s too tight to pry off with his fingers. 

Suddenly, the bright light fades back into the green glow, and the whirring noise intensifies. The air flow increases, and he moves his head closer, breathing in as much air as he can. The box on its own would only sustain him for maybe an hour and a half at most...but why provide him the additional air supply? Why tell him he was going to die in this box, but then offer him a tool for survival?

His thoughts are disrupted as the light clicks on again. The air flow starts to slow, and in its stead, the heat of the box rises.

\--------------------------------

He’s lost count of how many times the light has turned on since his arrival to the coffin, but he’s figured out that the light is turned off after two minutes of staying on, although the timing of it turning back on is inconsistent, varying from just a few seconds to nearly a minute. 

The fan is like a carrot at the end of the stick, but the light is like the stick-holder, yanking away the carrot every time he almost gets enough air to breathe normally.

The lack of a consistent air flow is not the worst part of his ordeal, though. The heat coming from the light is worse, just barely, but still worse. Sweat is beaded all over his face, his feet feel as if he had stepped in a puddle. He contemplates ripping off his shirt, but knows his skin would just end up sticking to the acrylic glass surface, making the ordeal just as worse. 

His mouth feels dry, and his stomach grumbles. He can no longer feel his legs, or most of his body for that matter. Lying still for so long has made his joints go stiff, his whole body feels weak. He takes a glance at his watch. 

It’s seven in the morning. He should be ending his shift by now, or heading to breakfast, or filing his shift report, or talking to Warrick in the locker room…

Warrick in the locker room. He lets out a soft chuckle, how did a night that started out with a casual conversation between two friends turn into an exercise in torture? Is Warrick out looking for him now, or is he still tangled up at Strip-o-Rama? He knows better than to think the latter, cause if it was Warrick in this box--which it damn well nearly was--Nick would have dropped everything to find him. 

Catherine’s probably raising hell, bargaining for every available resource she can get to find Nick. Do they even know where to begin?

Did she have to call his parents? He can see Mom and Cisco, lamenting the disappearance of one of their sons. Oh well, they still have six other children that may not be buried before they die. 

Did Ecklie allow Grissom, Sara and Greg to join the search? Or did he decide it wasn’t worth the time, and make them work the rest of the assignment slips that are piled so high they’re reaching the ceiling? 

He can see Sara and Greg at the alley, taking the same pictures he took of the entrails and cigarette butt and tire treads, finding the same styrofoam cup he did, already bagged and tagged, but not tagged correctly. Hopefully they didn’t pick it up, and didn’t wake up six feet under like he did. 

And Grissom...well, he’s probably just being Grissom, isn’t he? 

\--------------------------------

“Enough with….Enough with the damn light!”

It’s one thirty in the afternoon, and way past his bedtime. 

It’s been well over twelve hours, and he’s beginning to suspect that he’s being watched. He wonders if they can even hear him, though he’s stayed mostly silent since his initial freak-out. 

After a grueling two minutes, the light turns off again, and the fan turns on full power. He can breathe again. 

Almost an instant later, the light turns back on.

“No!” he pleads. He begins to wonder why the fan seems to slow whenever the light turns on and off, and maybe it’s the low amount of oxygen in the box or the fact that he’s overtired, but he finally makes the connection. 

“The fan’s connected...The fan’s connected to the light.”

A few more cycles later, and he reaches his breaking point. He takes a look at the light, and then back at the fan. Maybe if he could break the light, whatever power supply that’s keeping the fan and light running would focus solely on the fan. He contemplates kicking out the light, but the light is protected by the same acrylic glass that so far hasn’t broken under the pressure of his punches and kicks. 

Then his hand brushes against the gun, and he gets an idea as to how he can break through the light.

But unless he wants to come out of this deaf, he needs to put something in his ears. He remembers the gum that he offered D.A. last night,and twists his waist so he can dig it out of his back pocket. It almost hurts to move, like his body was punctured with thousands of pins and needles after not moving for so long. His stiff fingers comb through his back pocket, until he’s able to pull out that last piece of gum.

He lays his head back, his body feels heavy with exhaustion at the slightest of movements, and his hands tremble as he struggles to unwrap the gum. He tosses the wrapper to the side and starts chewing. 

He spits out a wad of saliva, which ends up landing on his hand. He waits until the bubblegum flavor is gone from his mouth before taking out half of the gum, sticking it in his right ear. He then takes the other half and puts it in his left. The moist, makeshift earplugs don’t feel all that pleasant, but they’ll get the job done. He can’t hear the whirring of the fan any more, he can only hear the sound of his labored breathing.

His hand searches for the gun that he had tossed back to the side, he had no intention of using it until the fan dies out. He had kept it barely at arm’s reach so that he wouldn’t keep touching it, he didn’t want to be reminded that it was a way out. 

He cocks the gun and contemplates the options laid out before him. He could shoot the lid to the box, and try to claw his way out of the hole before the dirt suffocates him entirely. But his body is too weak for that amount of activity right now, and he could be three feet or ten feet underground.

He could shoot the light, possibly lending more power to the fan, and possibly extending the amount of time he’d be able to stay alive until he’s rescued. On the other hand, shooting the light is going to create a hole, it could cause the box to collapse. There’s even the possibility that he could miss entirely and shoot his feet off, and then he’ll end up bleeding out instead of suffocating.

But that’s all it is, a possibility. He touches the gun to his chin. It’s been over twelve hours, if they’re not going to find him now, they’ll probably never find him. 

Put your gun in your mouth, and pull the trigger…

What’s the point in delaying the inevitable? Any way he likes, he’s going to die here.

His face scrunches in defiance, and his decision is made. 

If someone really is out there watching him, he hopes they can see his small victory. He lets out a cold, almost maniacal laugh before cracking open another glow stick and relishing the now fully reliable air supply. 

It’s quarter to two in the afternoon, and he has finally taken control in this uncontrollable situation.


	3. 6:00 PM

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was Christmas in Las Vegas, when the box began to crack.

It’s six o’clock in the evening. Without the light turning on and off, the air from the fan has been steady, but is only just enough to keep him breathing. The air doesn’t add as much comfort as he had thought, he’s drenched in sweat, his back hurts and he can’t feel his legs. He can’t seem to get his arms in a comfortable position, they’re either hugging his body or jammed between him and the box. The space in the box feels somehow even more cramped than before.

Who could do this to another human being? He almost wishes the man on the tape had just shot him instead of throwing him in a box and telling him to do it himself. Why did the man take Nick, and not the distracted police officer? _Because you followed the evidence. Because that’s what CSIs do._

The guy on the tape didn’t even say his name, was this even about Nick at all? Grissom’s words still haunt him from that night in the station. Nigel Crane on the other side of the glass, watching Nick even though he can’t physically see him.

_“I don’t think it was about you, Nick.”_

As if that offers any comfort.

He wonders if they are still looking for him. Were they given a ransom? He vaguely remembers a case from four years ago, where the victim was buried alive for a ransom. Would the department even be able to pay it?

He darkly envisions a collection jar in the break room with his name on it, his friends and co-workers dropping coins and dollar bills into the jar. Coins...he flipped a coin with Warrick for that trash run. He’s never gambling with Warrick again.

He sighs, remembering his good mood from the previous night, his playful teasing of Warrick, singing along to one of his favorite songs in the car...

_“It was Christmas in Las Vegas, when the locals take the town. Theresa hit a streak and laid her waitress apron down”_

He remembers the cool air of nighttime in Nevada blowing gently on his face, and smiles.

_“She was playing penny poker, over at the old Gold Spike”_

He remembers what it feels like to breathe fresh air.

_“She tired of Texas hold 'em, so she switched to let it ride”_

He remembers what it feels like to be alive.

His singing trails off, and he’s left in silence once again. He checks his watch. One minute has passed. Time seems to have stretched, every second ticking by feels like an hour. Maybe he should stop checking the time. Maybe if he does, they’ll find him sooner.

If they ever find him at all.

He tries to envision himself on the other side of the glass, where would he even begin to look for someone buried underneath the earth? He remembers that Grissom and Sara had found the woman buried alive in the desert using an infrared camera, maybe they’re using the same to find him now…

But what if he’s not buried in an easily searchable space? What if people are walking above him, completely unaware that there is a body hidden beneath the surface?

Suddenly, he hears a soft scratching noise, he strains to locate the source. The noise gets louder, it’s not just scratching, it almost sounds like...creaking? Crunching? He looks up at the dirt above him, searching for signs of movement. He cracks one of the remaining glow sticks for more light as the scratching gets louder. Is there someone digging above him?

“Hey!” he shouts. He shakes the glow stick, knocks on the glass, shouting to attract attention to himself. “I’m in here! Hey!”

His voice cracks, and he feels like he doesn’t have much time before he loses his voice. His throat is dry and stings as he begins to sing again, clinging onto the hope that whoever is above him can hear him. He doesn’t care that his singing is terrible, he doesn’t care that he’s starting to cry, he doesn’t care that it could be his own abductor digging him out to drug him again and put him in another terrifying situation. He just cares about getting out of this alive.

“I’m here!” he cries out one final time, pounding helplessly against the box. The dirt isn’t moving the but the sounds are continuing, getting even louder. He should be able to see _some_ sign of movement, should be able to hear voices calling from above, telling him that they’re coming…

He looks to the sides, maybe the box isn’t oriented horizontally like he thinks it is. Nothing up top, nothing to the left and nothing to the right...but at the bottom, he sees the source of the noise, and his heart drops.

The “scratching” he heard wasn’t scratching, it was the sound of dirt starting to seep through the two bullet holes he created when he shot the light. Dirt was flowing through like water, and the creaking noise was coming from the cracks around the hole, which were spreading out, rapidly.

He feels the panic rise as his breathing intensifies. His left hand trembles, still clutching the glow stick. He holds his right hand against the top of the box, which remains undamaged. The cracks have spread to the sides of the box, and are now spreading further, faster. The cracks reach past his waist, coming up to his torso and then his neck and then his head. Dirt has spilled over his pants, almost completely covering his feet.

“No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no” he pleads in a whisper. It’s just as he feared when he shot that damn light hours ago. Between these cracks and the pressure of the earth, this box is going to collapse sooner or later, and he can’t do a single thing to stop it.

_Oh my God._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is bit of a short one compared to the last two chapters, but man...getting into Nick's head during this episode is a bit rough.


	4. 9:00 PM

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The cracks act as a loaded gun, but there’s nobody to bargain with. Nobody to intimidate. All he can do is wait.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The beginning of the end...if you aren't fond of ants, you might not like this chapter. Or the next one. (But maybe the last one or two? Haven't quite decided how many more chapters there will be...)

Dirt continuously pours from the holes in the box, like sand trickling down an hourglass. His feet are almost completely buried. He doesn’t bother moving them, there’s nowhere for them to go anyway. Dirt has seeped into his pants, some even down his socks. The cracks stopped spreading, he’s memorized the pattern of them just as he’s memorized the pattern of the dirt above him. At any minute, the cracks could spread again, the box could collapse, the fan could break, and he would truly suffocate under the earth.

He’s reminded of that woman, almost five years ago, crying, hands shaking, pointing a loaded gun to his face. Spilling her soul out in front of her, she was in so much pain. She had every right to be, her husband had almost broken off their engagement to be with another woman. She was haunted by the body that she put in the ground, he wonders if his kidnapper will be haunted by him.

He remembers how scared he was, that this woman was going to pull the trigger, and he’d end up like Holly Gribbs. He remembers pleading for her to set the gun down, tears streaming down his own face. The sinking feeling that his life was going to be cut short, before his time was up. He had so much to do, so much to feel, so much to say, and he would never get to do any of it. 

He’s reminded of that man, nearly three years ago, so severely mentally disturbed that he wanted to  _ become  _ Nick, pointing a loaded gun-- _ his  _ gun--to his face. Screaming at Nick about his poor manners, expressing his disappointment that Nick couldn’t see him even if he was right in front of his face. Describing the sick, twisted present of a crime scene that he was going to give Nick. Nick’s kidnapper has offered a similar present--he can envision evidence bags, just like the godforsaken styrofoam cup that transported him here, containing the glow sticks, the gun, the tape recorder. Grissom would probably want the whole box brought to the lab for investigation, maybe placed on the table in the evidence room. He can see the box, illuminated by the table’s backlight. A dummy modeled after Nick placed inside, his body would be in the morgue by now, with a tag on his toe. Trajectory markers sticking through the bullet holes in the glass, photos of the scene laid out around the perimeter of the box. 

He remembers also envisioning himself as the the victim in the close-range shooting crime scene that man described. He was just as scared even though he tried to act tough--“ _ This isn’t the first time I’ve had a gun in my face.”  _ He remembers moving even closer to the gun, the man’s hands were shaking worse than Nick’s, he figured maybe he could intimidate the man into backing off, but it still didn’t stop that sinking feeling once again, that his life was going to be cut short.

He feels the same way right now, the cracks acting as the loaded gun, but there’s nobody to bargain with. Nobody to intimidate. All he can do is wait. 

He’s willing to wait forever if he has to, if it means getting out of here alive. He’s as good at being patient as he’s as good as listening. But how long can he wait until the box finally does collapse? Until the fan dies out and he runs out of air? Until he dies of dehydration or starvation? Until the sleep deprivation hits him so hard that his body begins to shut down?

He re-adjusts himself, checking the time. It’s nine o’clock. He’s been in this hell for nearly twenty-one hours. As he sets his hand back down, it brushes against the tape recorder. The only form of communication he has with the person who did this to him. And it’s completely one-sided...

_ So, breathe quick, breathe slow _ …

But the tape isn’t. 

He thinks of all things he’ll never get to say to his parents, to his siblings, to his friends, even to his colleagues. He compares it to the last thing he’s said to all of them. He can barely remember the last time he spoke to his parents, it’s been a while since he’s called. He needs to call them more often.

He thinks of his colleagues--no, his friends--no, his  _ family _ . They’ve all went their separate ways over the last year, torn apart by stupid office politics. He speaks to Catherine and Warrick on a daily basis, but when was the last time he saw Grissom, Greg or Sara? 

He flips the tape over and presses play. The other side of the tape is completely blank. No matter what the last thing he said to his friends and family, it doesn’t matter now. He’s going to wipe the slate clean. 

Where does he even begin? What does he even say? He lies still, trying to turn the wheels in his head; it’s getting harder to form coherent thoughts. Who does he even speak to? He knows so many people, would miss them all so much, does this tape even have enough space for all the things he wanted to say?

He glances at his watch again, it’s ten o’clock, and he presses “record.”

“My name is Nick Stokes. If anybody finds this tape, If anybody finds this tape, turn it into the Las Vegas…”  _ Crime Lab? Police Department? Which one? “ _ PD. There should be a reward.”

“Mom…” 

Time stands still, and he pictures the only woman he ever felt true comfort from. Her soft face, her gentle smile as she dropped him off to pre-school, to middle school, to high school, to college...to the airport. Tears had stung in both of their eyes the day he moved to Vegas. He knows he gets his emotional side from her, and he loves her for it. She was there for him, no matter what, even when she didn’t know what really happened to him the night that he stayed up waiting for her to get home…

He can’t stop his voice from cracking, not out of exhaustion, but because he’s about to cry. 

“Cisco...” 

Time stands still, and he pictures the man he’s looked up to his whole life. His sharp face, the playful fire in his eyes as he joked around with his youngest son, the same laughter lines Nick has on his own face as they sit and watch  _ The Cisco Kid  _ every Saturday morning. Nick, a little vainly, likes to think that he was the favorite son, after all, he was the Pancho to his father’s Cisco. The man was an inspiration for him, Nick knows that he gets his desire for justice from this man. He always wanted to prove himself to Cisco, like a true sidekick does. In order to do that, though, he had to leave him behind…

He could not have had a better pair of parents, how is even going to be able to say goodbye?

“Well, this is a lousy way to say good-bye, but it's all I've got. I love you. You raised me right…and I'm going to miss you.” 

He pauses, composes himself. He knows he can’t stop his voice from quavering, but he doesn’t want his last words to be clouded by incoherent crying.

“As for the rest of you guys, I know you did the best you could to find me.”

Who does he start with? He pictures all of their faces in his head, trying to think of the first thing he would say to them if he knew it was the last thing he would ever say. He lingers on the face of Gil Grissom, even though he doesn’t work under him any more, he still looks to him as a mentor...Grissom taught him almost everything he knows. 

“Grissom…”

_ “You know why I took this job? Honestly? I wanted to pack heat, walk under the yellow tape, be the man but mostly, because I want you to think I'm a good CSl.” _

He always wanted to make the man proud, just like he wanted to make his father proud…but there was that time he got involved with Kristy Hopkins, the time he blabbed about crime scene details to a reporter, all the small mistakes he made that could jeopardize the integrity of the lab, of the team, of Grissom as a supervisor...

“I...I never meant to disappoint you.”

He gulps down another sob, and pauses, almost smiles. After all these years, he still wants Grissom’s approval--

Suddenly, he feels something in his feet. He wasn’t actively trying to move them, is there something pulling at him--? No, it doesn’t feel like someone is pulling. It feels like something is...crawling. Like a tiny spider, maybe-- _ OUCH. _

A pinch, that stings and burns at the time time, somewhere on his feet. First it was his right foot, the one completely buried in the dirt-- _ OUCH-- _ and another in his left. He begins to shout in shock of this sudden sensation, but his shouts of surprise quickly dissolve into screams--he didn’t even know he still had enough power in his voice or energy in his body to scream. 

His body jerks in all directions, trying to shake off the sensation, but the burning and stinging spreads up his body, just like the cracks climbed up the sides of the box. 

_ What the hell is it coming from? _

He looks down, fumbling for a new glow-stick so he could see--the old glow stick was dying behind his head. He can barely keep his eyes open, his eyes are stinging and burning too, from the tears that supplement his screams.

He finds another stick, quickly cracks it--he can’t stop screaming,  _ it hurts so much _ ! He almost wishes the light would turn back on, so he could get a better look, but as his eyes dart towards his feet, he gets a pretty good idea of what is now crawling up through his pants, onto his hands, his arms, his neck, his face--

  
Ants. Red ants. _Fire_ ants.   



	5. 11:30 PM - 12:30 AM

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If and when the fan dies out, it’s game over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey remember that episode in season 3, "Snuff?" Cause I do. I added a bit of dialogue to it, of Nick and Grissom discussing fire ants, cause I like to think that conversation may have been what gave Nick the idea to stay still.
> 
> Also, fun fact, the line "He’ll be going into anaphylactic shock" actually comes from the copy of the review script I own for this episode.

_ A distant memory, hazy and distorted swirls in his mind. He’s a young boy running around, looking for sticks to build a campfire. Tripping, falling face first into the dirt. Holding back tears, because big boys don’t cry, Pancho. A sting on his hand, swelling almost immediately, feeling both like a sting from bee, and a burn from fire. He remembers a man who looks just like him helping him off the ground, holding his hand, telling him he would be fine. It’s just a fire ant bite, it’ll go away in a few days. The man warns him not to go running near the ant hill again. Don’t bother them, and they won’t bother you. _

_ The man’s face distorts, turns into another one, an older one. Glasses rest on his nose, his hand now holds a picture instead of a child’s hand. He’s no longer a young boy, but the bite on his hand still remains. And another appears. And another...and another until his whole hand is covered in bites. _

_ “What was the cause of death? Eaten alive?” he asks, as the older man passes the picture to Nick. The voice is his own, but it doesn’t feel like it. It’s too calm to be his. _

_ “No, we found stab wounds, he was more than likely dead before the ants got to him. I’m about to go work on a possible timeline. I need you to examine the box we found him in.” _

_ “Can do, boss...man, you know I was bit by a fire ant once as a kid. Hurt like hell. This many ants, guy was lucky to be dead before he got covered in them.” _

_ “Yeah. Small confined space, no way to escape…He couldn’t exactly brush them off.” _

_ All of the ants in the picture start to move. They start to leave the body, leave the picture, and begin to cover Nick. The memory of Grissom stands next to Nick, completely unaware, prattling on about fire ants and their behavior. _

_ “Best thing he could have done was lie still.” _

_ “Yeah, yeah, don’t bother them, they won’t bother you?”  _

The memory fades, and he is left in darkness. His eyes are shut tight, but he can feel ants between the the crinkles of his skin.  He can feel an ant poking around in his left ear, he shakes his head to get it out. It’s bad enough they were on top of his body, now they were  _ inside _ his body. He now wishes he hadn’t removed the gum from his ears. He tries to remember where he put the gum, maybe he can put it back in, but then remembers he has another option.

He can’t contain his cries of pain as he digs in his pockets. Every slight movement costs him, his whole body feels like it’s on fire. He can’t stop the ants from getting into his pants and shoes, but he can stop them from getting into his nose, ears and mouth. He continues to shake the ants off his face, blowing them out from his nose and mouth. He manages to get the pair of unused latex gloves out of his front pocket. He bites off two of the fingers, and plugs them into his ears. He contemplates putting more latex in his nose, but he wouldn’t be able to breathe. He’ll need to be able to breathe through his nose, he’ll have to keep his mouth shut as tight as possible. His shaking hand drops the glove, and he uses the adrenaline coursing through his veins to rip off a piece of his shirt sleeve. He breaks the piece in half, takes a deep inhale one final time and then sticks the pieces up his nose. He can just barely take in air through the fabric. 

With one last exhale through his mouth, he crosses his arms together, clutching his sleeves close to his skin. He purses his lips tight, puffing out air through the corners of his mouth as the ants attempt to get in. He tries to steady his body, but it’s easier said than done. 

Lying still does seem to ease the pain, though, but just barely. The biting is less sporadic and frequent, though the ants are still crawling over his whole body. He tries to to think of something, anything other than the pain he feels in every blister on his skin. But all he can think about is how much  _ it hurts _ . He can’t seem to stop himself from letting out a muffled scream in between bites. 

He almost wishes that the coin flip ended differently. He almost wishes that the officer decided to go vomit on the other end of the alley. He almost wishes he never shot out that damn light.

Unbeknownst to him, it’s eleven thirty at night, and he almost wishes that he could just die.

That wish might just come true, he thinks darkly to himself. He doesn’t know what time it is, but he knows that fan sure as hell isn’t going to last much longer, unless it’s connected to some sort of generator. 

He releases one of his hands, suddenly it feels cool as he un-curls his fingers...until ants start to bite at the exposed skin. He slowly moves it towards his waist, patting around for the gun. He manages to find it, and rests it on his stomach. He contemplates moving it up to his face now, but he decides against it. He’ll be able to survive as long as the fan stays on. 

If and when the fan dies out, it’s game over. 

\----------------------------------------------------

Perhaps it’s due to the lack of proper oxygen flow to his brain, the dehydration or the sleep deprivation, but he thinks he can hear Catherine’s voice call to him, a voice chopped up by the fan blades that are still whirring next to him. 

He desperately wants to call back to her, provide any aid he can in order for her to find him. All he can give is another muffled scream. 

His heart begins to pound faster and faster, as if it were going to just burst out of his chest. He remembers the science lesson Grissom gave him on fire ants all those years ago, and envisions him giving Catherine the same lesson as they dig for him. 

“ _ He’ll be going into anaphylactic shock.”  _ Grissom’s voice tells Catherine, his voice also chopped up by the fan. 

Anaphylactic shock...he remembers learning about it in school. If untreated, it could lead to unconsciousness...or death. 

He wouldn’t mind the unconsciousness right now.

Grissom’s voice fades out as he prattles on about the effects of anaphylaxis, and the world somehow gets darker than it already was. The pain fades from Nick’s body. He feels absolutely nothing. The noise of the fan is gone. He’s left in silence, until he hears a clicking noise, followed by the sound of something being...dragged. It sounds like metal.

“It’s a damn shame they didn’t get to him sooner.” 

It’s Doc Robbins’ voice. He sounds disappointed, somber. 

“I sure will miss him.”

Super Dave…

“You know, David, I’ve seen fire ant bites in my time, but never anything like this.”

“Do you think he suffered?”

“Do I think he suffered?” A pause. Nick wonders who they’re talking about. 

“Yes, definitely.”

The begin to laugh, hysterically, as if they just heard the funniest joke of their life. Nick wills himself to open his eyes at last. He’s in the morgue, and Doc Robbins and David stand above him, looking down at his naked body.  _ They’re laughing at him _ .

“All right. On three.” Doc Robbins finally says as the laughter dies out. “Uno...”

“Dos…” David chimes in. 

“Tres!” 

David turns around, there’s a tape player sitting where they normally keep the autopsy tools. He clicks it on. Nick’s favorite song begins to play. David is bobbing his head along to the song, Nick almost wants to start singing, but he can’t move. He can only move his eyes. He steals a glance at the clock behind Doc Robbins, it’s spinning around and around, time means nothing any more. 

“Would you care to do the ‘Y’ incision?” Doc Robbins asks David, passing him a large butcher’s knife. 

“Well ‘Y’ not?” 

David digs the knife into Nick’s chest, cutting a ‘Y’ shape. He can’t feel the sensation, but there is a loud cracking and squelching noise. The coroners peel back the flaps, as Nick studies the placement of his internal organs, Doc Robbins grabs a chainsaw.

“Mind your hands and feet.” 

Nick tries to move them out of the way, but he  _ can’t move _ .

He looks up as blood spatters everywhere. If he could feel anything, he would feel the blood ooze down his collarbone.

Doc Robbins begins to take his body apart, starting with his ribcage, and his stomach, his intestines, his lungs. He passes them to David, who tosses them away.

Suddenly, David is replaced by his father, dressed in his Sunday best. He sounds just as jovial as Doc Robbins is.

“So, Doc, how did my son die? Anaphylactic shock?”

“No, no, he didn’t live long enough for that. C.O.D was asphyxiation.” he tells Cisco His tone is that of a teacher, Nick feels like he should be taking notes. “When the blood oxygen drops to less than sixteen percent and the CO2 builds up, there’s a rapid loss of consciousness. Death within minutes, with no disfiguring physical findings.”

“He’ll look great at the funeral,” his dad says, a smile plastered on his face.

“Oh, yes,” Doc Robbins chuckles.

“His mother will appreciate that.” Nick’s eyes widen. He suddenly wants to move, but still can’t. 

_ Mom.... _ He really wants his mom right now.

Doc Robbins looks down, still smiling. He reaches into Nick’s chest, grabbing hold of the final organ in his body. His heart.

It’s still beating.

He holds it up, looks at Cisco.

“Your son had a good heart.”

Nick blinks as Doc Robbins passes the heart to Cisco. His heart is still beating, but is back inside his chest. The world is no longer as bright and harsh as the lights of the morgue. It’s dark and green. He can see his terrified, ant-covered face reflected in the glass above him. He takes a quick glance at his watch before shutting his eyes closed before any ants could get in.

It’s half past midnight. 


	6. Out of time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A light dances in front of his closed eyelids again, there was a voice--a familiar, fatherly sounding voice, but he can’t seem to make out who the voice belonged to, or what it said to him. It doesn’t matter now. Nothing matters. His life definitely doesn’t matter, not to the team, not to his best friend, not even to him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm in great pain please send help.
> 
> I borrowed a few things from the rough cut of the episode, and added in a few of my own. Enjoy. But be warned, this is a bumpy ride.

He doesn’t know how much longer it was, it could have been seconds, minutes, hours, maybe even days since he had last checked his watch but nothing had changed. The ants were still crawling all over his body, penetrating his skin and injecting venom. He could still feel his skin bubble after each bite, could feel the swelling all over his body. His body was as still as he could keep it, although it uncontrollably shook with each ant bite. The air was still thick, he could still barely breathe. His nostrils were stuffed with fabric, and his ears plugged with latex. His right hand was still clutching the gun resting on his stomach.

The fan was still on...until it wasn’t.

He knew it was coming, but it still doesn’t make it any easier to hear as the whirring starts to slow, and then stops altogether.

It doesn’t make it any easier, as he starts to let out a soft sob, muttering pleas through dry, cracked lips. Ants begin to pour into his mouth, he spits a few out.

It doesn’t make it any easier as he struggled to move his right arm holding the gun. His throat burned as he started to scream. After being still for so long, he had almost forgotten how weak his body has become, along with the increasing pain as the ants frenzied across his now moving limb.

It doesn’t make it any easier to think about how long he had lasted, over twenty four hours confined in absolute hell, holding onto a shred of hope that maybe, just maybe the team--his _family_ \--would find him before the fan died out. He had made the calculations, without the additional air supply, he would maybe have an hour before he runs out of air. With the hundreds of ants now occupying the same space, the amount of dirt that had poured in, and the pieces of fabric stuck up his nose, he had even less than that.

His right hand finds itself pointing the gun at his chin, the nuzzle digging into his skin. His left hand instinctively tries to move the gun away, he continues to scream as the voice on the tape kept taunting him to do it…

_“Put your gun in your mouth, and pull the trigger.”_

Maybe he should wait. Just a little longer. Another voice enters his head, telling him what would happen if he pulled the trigger.

_“Nick, you know what a nine-millimeter slug does to a skull at close range? You know? Blow it right apart, right? Brains like strawberry swirled. Whipped cream, everywhere.”_

He wouldn’t have to be the one to clean it up, though. His finger twitches on the trigger. He begins to squeeze. It would all be over soon.

He begins to wonder, who would be the one to clean up the pieces of skull and bone and brains?

“Hey!”

Would it be Warrick? Or would he flip a coin with someone for the luxury of doing a more simple task, like doing the crime scene sketch? Light begins to wave past his face, and the tension in his eyelids begins to release.

“Hey! We got you, man! Hey, Nicky!”

He can’t believe it. The mass amount of dirt is being pushed away, he can see a dark blurry figure behind the condensed and scratched glass. Even though can’t exactly see the figure’s face, and the noise outside of the box is muffled, it sounds a hell of a lot like Warrick.

“Nicky! Yeah! Hey, hold on there!”

He uses his left hand to wipe away the condensation on the glass, and a sob of relief escapes his body. His best friend came for him after all.

“Hey, put that down! Put that down, put that down. We got you. We're gonna get you out of here, hang in there!”

He had almost forgotten the gun, he removes it from his chin, and then his hand spasms in pain, throwing it aside. The sudden movements spiked up the pain once again, feeling like a thousand needles all over his body.

He can’t make out what Warrick is yelling, something about a fire extinguisher? He shuts his eyes again in pain, but can still see light dancing around behind his eyelids.

A cool wave of air enters the box on his left side, it feels relieving at first, until a more intense wave of air accompanying by a loud _whoosh_ entered the box. The mass of ants covering his body cease their crawling, the burning sensation begins to subside, but in its place, his skin feels like it’s being covered by a thin layer of ice.

A couple more bursts of this pressurized air enter the box, this time from the other side. He can hear a commotion of voices and movement outside of the box, but Warrick’s voice is loudest of all.

“Hang on, buddy. Hang on. Almost outta there.”

He must have shown some sign of pain or discomfort, because Warrick increased the volume of his voice, as Nick raises his arms against the lid. He’s itching to just get out already, what’s taking them so damn long?

“Hang on. Hang on. We'll kill those ants, okay?”

Now the air burst are coming in from the bottom of his box, near his feet. He takes a few breaths in between bursts, trying to be careful not to choke. He’s almost out, he sure as hell wasn’t going to die by suffocation now.

Warrick’s now giving instructions, telling various people--Sara and Brass’s names pricked his ears up in particular--to grab corners of the box. He can see more blurry figures surround the lid. Warrick begins to count, and Nick feels like he’s on the ascent of a roller coaster. The box begins to creak--for a split second his heart stopped, thinking it was going to just collapse--he braces himself for the fresh air and freedom, and suddenly--

“ARE YOU KIDDING?” Warrick shouts, but his words are not directed towards Nick. All of the figures left the perimeter, except for Warrick, who’s head is turned, looking behind him. Silence for a moment, before he shouts again.

“I’M NOT LEAVING WITHOUT NICK!”

 _No. No no no no no. Please don’t, please don’t leave me_.

“I’M NOT LEAVING HERE WITHOUT HIM!”

Nick feels a burst of affection for Warrick, whatever’s causing this hesitation to open the box, he knew Warrick wouldn’t leave. He’s going to get Nick out of here, just like he said.

There are multiple voices shouting, one female and another male. Then, time seems to freeze as the shouting stops. Nick can only hear his own shaky breathing. His limbs writhe and shake, his body is in so much pain, he’s so cold, he can barely breathe, he _just wanted to get out_.

Warrick turns back to look at Nick, but the look on his face is the opposite of encouraging. He’s looking at Nick like he looks at the corpses at crime scenes.

Maybe he’s already dead.

Nick begins to scream, as if to snap Warrick out of whatever was causing him to step aside, but it’s as if Warrick didn’t hear him. His throat is so sore, his vocal chords strung so far to their limits, he wonders if any sound even left his body.

“Help!” he cries out. He prays that they heard him, that they were going to come back over the box, maybe even lift it out of the ground. He weakly pounds his hands against the glass, maybe they had already opened the lid, maybe all he had to do was sit up--

But the lid is still sealed tight. And nobody came.

_They’re leaving him._

He shuts his eyes tight, and his screams once again dissolve into sobs and whimpers. He continues to pound the lid with weak fists, expending energy he no longer has. Maybe he’s hallucinating again, maybe the dirt is still on top of him, and his brain is conjuring up some final images before running completely out of oxygen.

A light dances in front of his closed eyelids again, there was a voice--a familiar, fatherly sounding voice, but he can’t seem to make out who the voice belonged to, or what it said to him. It doesn’t matter now. Nothing matters. His life definitely doesn’t matter, not to the team, not to his best friend, not even to him.

“Pancho!”

_Cisco?_

His eyes snap open, his heart stopping for a moment once again. There’s another blurry figure on top of the box, with white skin, it looks like his--

_Dad?_

“Listen to me.”

The tears slide out of Nick’s eyes as a hand slams down on top of the lid, Nick jumps slightly. The figure’s features clear up, and Nick finally recognizes the face. It’s not his father, but he’s as good as a second one to him.

_Grissom..._

“Put your hand on my hand,” Grissom encourages him. Nick forces every muscle in his hand to move closer to Grissom’s, it’s oddly soothing even though the hands are separated by the glass of the box.

“Good. Now, listen. There may be explosives under the box. They’re probably set on pressure switches.”

His thoughts echo Warrick’s words from earlier, _are you kidding me?_

“We need to equalize your body weight before we can pull you out, okay?” Grissom’s speaking loud and slowly, Nick hangs on to every word of the plan, struggling to picture how they are going to accomplish the task. Is someone going to sacrifice themselves for Nick, switching places with him in the box? No, he wouldn’t let that happen. Neither would Grissom. “Pancho, nod your head if you understand me.”

He slowly nods his head, it’s getting harder and harder to move his body as exhaustion settles in.

Grissom momentarily disappears, and Nick’s heart pounds faster and faster. Grissom releases his hand, and Nick’s suddenly feels empty.

_Oh no, not you too. Please, Grissom, don’t leave me…_

But Grissom returns quickly, replacing his hand on top of Nick’s.

“All right, Pancho, we're gonna open the lid and get you out, but I need you to stay lying down. Okay? Or else you'll blow us all up,” Nick is reminded of the way his father talked to him as a young boy, soft, encouraging, comforting. “You understand that?”

He nods his head, but feels like he needs to give Grissom a verbal confirmation.

“Yeah, yeah,” he tells him. He tries to suppress his crying, it’s time to put on his brave face.

“Do you promise?” Grissom asks him. Nick nods again at him, but it doesn’t seem to be enough for Grissom. Is anything he does ever enough for that man?

“Pancho, say ‘I promise.’”

“I promise!” Nick cries out, giving up the fight against the tears that flow down his face once again. He can hear a loud humming in the distance, Grissom moves to the side, positioning himself where Warrick was before he left. Another figure appears next to Grissom.

“Don’t move,” Grissom reiterates, shining the light in Nick’s face one last time before all Nick can see is the darkness beyond the lid.

“Okay,” he chokes out, bracing himself for the fresh air and freedom he was previously robbed of. He tries to fight back the sobs once again, _big boys don’t cry, Pancho._

Finally, he hears a click, and a cool breeze descends from the night sky. It’s a huge shock to his system, which was already cold from the fire extinguisher bursts. Grissom and Warrick are perched to the side, _they didn’t leave him after all._

He doesn’t bother to stop the crying, he forgets his promise to Grissom, and reaches for him, searching for that connection they had moments ago through the glass. Grissom places his hand back down towards the lid, but _the lid is gone_. Nick’s arm shakes as he grabs hold of Grissom’s arm, he could really use a hug right now and doesn’t care who it’s from.

“I got you, I got you,” Warrick whispers to him, extending out his own gloved hand. Nick nearly rips the glove off of Warrick’s hand, looking at the faces of two of the closest men in his life, his mentor and best friend, and continues to cry. They found him, and were going to get him out of this box once and for all.

But Grissom holds his hand against Nick’s chest, pushing him down, preventing him from sitting completely up.

“Please,” he cries out. Why haven’t they got him out yet? Why are they holding him down?

“Lay still. Lay still. It's okay. It's okay.” Warrick soothes him.

_Oh. Right. The explosives. Under the box._

He takes a few deep breaths, his crying fades away. _Brave face, Nicky._

“Okay,” he pants. “Okay, okay, _okay._ ”

He nods to Grissom, ready for whatever crazy plan they have to get him out. His arms drop to his chest, bumping against the confines of the box.

“All right, bring that over!” Grissom beckons. He looks down towards Nick again, then nods to Warrick, who finally lets go of Nick’s trembling hand. As Warrick turns around to grab something, Nick sees what Grissom called over.

It’s a backhoe, dirt spilling out of the cradle.

“I’m sorry, buddy, but it’s the only way,” Grissom’s voice whispers to him, softly.

A sickening wave of nausea churns in Nick’s stomach as he realizes the plan. They’re going to spill dirt on top of him to equalize his body weight.

_They were going to truly bury him alive._

He shut his eyes tight, turning his head, bracing himself for the feeling that didn’t come quite yet. His hands hugged his chest, still shaking. There’s still the slight chance that this wouldn’t work, that he would end up like that body they found months ago, asphyxiated from the dirt in his lungs.

He heard a jingling sound, then a click. He opens his eyes out of curiosity, maybe they already did whatever they were going to do, and he was being buckled into a stretcher?

No, it was just Grissom, attaching a rope to Nick’s belt.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispers once again, and then steps out of the hole. He turns away, calling over some people for help, telling them to pick up the other end of the rope. He turns back towards Nick, standing close to the edge of the hole so that Nick could see him.

“All right, Pancho. I want you to close your eyes, and hold your breath.”

Nick gives him one more nod as he tries to calm himself, they’re doing this to save him, they’re not going to leave him, _they’re not going to leave him…_

He sees the dirt begin to pour from the backhoe just as he takes in a deep inhale of air, and shuts his eyes tight.

It only takes a few seconds, but soon enough dirt is blanketed over his entire body. There’s a slight pressure, and he can almost feel himself sink down past the box, further into the earth. The dirt isn’t just on top of him now, it surrounds his sides, lies underneath his back, he thought the confines of the box was tight, but this is tighter.

Time seems to stand still, he wonders how long they’ve left him under the pile of dirt. Were they testing him, to see if he could last another twenty four hours? Or did they decide he wasn’t worth the trouble, and were just going to leave him to suffocate quickly in the dirt?

His hands tremble, he blindly begins to search for the rope, maybe he’s supposed to crawl his way out?

His fingers nearly touch the rope when suddenly, he’s yanked out of the earth. Brought back from the dead.

He flies through the air, everything moves so fast he can’t take in his surroundings, there’s lights flashing all around him, and he’s suddenly slammed, face first, back onto the dirt. But this dirt is hard, firm, only present on one side of his body. The impact knocks his head upward, and briefly he sees Grissom, falling back into Warrick, their faces bracing for something heading to--

  
**_BOOM_ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> About to enter uncharted territory in this next chapter...stay tuned.


	7. 6:00 AM

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The two share a moment in silence, Nick can’t seem to think of anything to say. He has hundreds of questions, but wonders if Grissom would even have the answers. His eyes scan Grissom’s face, Grissom also seems to want to say something, his mouth keeps opening and closing, but nothing comes out.

The ground beneath him shakes violently as a wave of dirt and air pins him down to the ground. His ears pop, and a loud tone rings in his head. He shuts his eyes, waiting for the moment that the earth beneath him stops moving, or for the air to clear and become breathable once more. He feels remnants of his previous confinement that still cling to him, poking his skin, stinging as his body shakes uncontrollably,. His mouth is dry and dusty, a tasteless powdery texture has clung to the inside of his cheeks, to his teeth, some even finding its way into his scarred throat. 

For a moment, he’s trapped in this odd sensation that he’s still confined, that the box was just shaken like a snowglobe, that the dirt that made its way into the box was flying all around him like snowflakes in the air. His back feels like it's on fire, though the rest of his body feels like ice. He instinctively moves his face closer to a fan that is no longer there, tries to inhale oxygen into his body, but instead coughs out the dirt that coats his body like paint. He tries to breathe through his nose, but it feels heavily filtered, it doesn’t quite reach him. 

This feeling that he’s still trapped, isolated, suffocating, deprived of all human sensations and connections lingers for seconds that don’t seem to have an end. He tries to scream out into this torturous void, though even if he could, he cannot hear anything. The voice that inhabits his body is now gone, disconnected. His limbs feel detached, his heartbeat slows as his brain struggles to remember who he is, if it even matters anymore. 

He tries to remember what led him to this timeless moment, distant screams and shouts reverberate behind the muffling effect of latex stuffed into his ear drums. A monotonous tone rings over everything, even beyond the latex. His body rocks back and forth as if floating in the water...water... _ what does water feel like _ he wonders. 

The muffled sounds in his ear come unplugged, everything sounds so much louder it hurts. The blockage in his nose is taken out, so fast that it tickles his nostrils. Something soft, warm presses down on a side of his body, and he falls backwards. 

He feels more warmth, more pressure. Something is wrapped around his chest, he tries to fight it at first, desiring the freedom to move according to his will for the first time in over a day. His eyelids feel like stone, but he tries to lift them anyway. Blurred faces swirl and distort through spotlights flashing at him. He shuts his eyes again, wincing. 

The tone in his ear is fading, and the screaming and shouting is becoming clearer. A name is being called for, a name that he recognizes, that he feels a sense of belonging towards.

“Nick! Nicky, buddy, we got you!” 

He was being rescued, that’s what was happening. His name was Nick Stokes, and he was being pulled out of hell. 

“Hang on, Pancho, you’re almost out of the woods now.”

Both voices are familiar to him, they belong to a brother, to a father. The corners of his lips twitch upward, he tries to open his mouth to speak, to make some joke about how they couldn’t get rid of him that easily, but he still can’t find his voice. 

Instead his body begins to float, he reaches out, and another hand grasps his. He feels something grab his leg, too, patting it, it feels reassuring. He inhales and exhales, shaky breaths becoming steadier as soothing words of comfort from his brother’s voice fly through his ears.

“We got you, we got you.”

“Alright, Nick, I’m going to take your vitals now, okay?”

But this voice isn’t familiar, and sounds cold, harsh…Almost like the voice on the tape…

_ Hi, CSI guy… _

Something grabs at his arm, applying increasing amounts of pressure.

He's being taken again. Out of the frying pan, back into the six foot sensory deprivation box. His new home, shrouded in never fading green light, constantly depleting and refilling miniscule amounts of oxygen. 

“No…no no no no no….” he moans, unaware if any sound made it out of his body. He hears the cold voice calling out information about his blood pressure, his heart rate. The voice is collecting data, just like he collects evidence. 

_ Cause you followed the evidence, cause that’s what CSIs do. _

“He’s just doing his job, buddy,” Warrick voice echoes in his mind.

“So was I,” Nick mutters. One of his eyelids is lifted up, and a blinding white light is shoved into his eyes. The light is back on...but he shot that out hours ago.

The light disappears, then reappears in the other eye.

“No! Enough with the damn light!” he echoes sentiments from eons ago. His fingers twitch, searching for a gun that was destroyed minutes ago. His lips tremble, he just  _ cannot _  deal with the light again. 

“Shhh, shhh, it’s okay, it’s okay,” a motherly voice now, Catherine.

Hands are touching and prodding all over his body, goosebumps begin to rise through the blisters and cuts from the glass. He knows they’re human hands, but they feel like giant ants…

“I'm going to roll you over now, Nick, take a look at your back,”

As he's rolled onto his side, something rises in his stomach, propelling outward through his throat. The sides of his throat burn and sting, like glass is being dragged from his stomach to his mouth. 

“Just nausea from the tinnitus, it’ll pass.”

As the last bit of vomit drips out of his lips, he tries to catch his breath, but as he finishes a sharp inhale, his throat closes. He tries again to breathe, but his throat remains closed. He screws his face in concentration, trying to figure out how to open his throat. His eyes dart around, looking for Warrick and Catherine, but they’re not in his line of sight. 

_ Breathe quick...breathe slow... _

“Can’t...breathe…” he mouths, no sound exits his body. 

_ Anyway you like, you’re going to die here. _

“He’s going into shock,” the cold voice states without emotion. Nick wonders if he’s this emotionless when he’s in the zone, “doing his job.” 

His body falls backwards again, his heavy eyes find what they were previously looking for, Warrick and Catherine, frozen in a moment between deep concern and terror. Everything seems to move slowly, every time his eyes move, his vision blurs. 

He blinks, and he’s looking at a crowd of doctors. They all look like Doc Robbins. 

He blinks, and he sees his mother, crying into Cisco’s shoulder as he looks on in sorrow. He wants to cry too.

He blinks, and sees Warrick, Catherine, Sara, Greg, Brass all spread throughout a room--hospital room? They’re all looking at him with varying degrees of despair on their faces. In the distance, he thinks he sees Grissom standing behind a glass window, he wants to raise his hand up, and touch Grissom’s like he did before…

He blinks, and everyone is gone except for Warrick. Warrick is standing closer to him, his head hung as he grips Nick’s hand. 

The movement between blinks is increasing in speed, his stomach is settling, and his throat feels open. His mouth no longer feels dry, air seems to flow more freely than it has in the last day. 

He blinks, and Warrick is still there. He wonders what time it is. Warrick is looking at him now, squints a little at Nick. 

He blinks, and Warrick is  _ still there.  _ But now, he’s talking on a phone. He can’t make out what Warrick is saying, voices of all the faces he’s seen seem like they haven’t caught up, like a lag with footage he’s watching. 

“Hey…” he tries to say to Warrick, to get his attention, but his voice is still gone. 

He blinks, and Warrick turns away, walking out of the room--no, they’re not in the room. Nick’s in a hole, 200 lbs of dirt looming above him. He lifts his hands up against the invisible glass, but Warrick doesn’t seem to notice. 

“No...Rick--” Nick calls out, his voice a hoarse whisper. Tears start to leave sting at the corners of his eyes, burning his skin as they slide down his cheek. He’s leaving him again, why is he leaving again?

The dirt starts to fall onto Nick, and he turns away to brace himself, but finds that his arms don’t hit the wall beside him--

Nick lets out a audible noise of shock as he falls face first onto the hospital room floor. The tile on the floor feels like a slap to his face. He feels suddenly feels connected to his body again, in control of his limbs, his senses, his voice. He takes a few deep breaths, and tries to push himself off the floor, but falls back down again. His eyes scan the room, it’s empty except for him. 

Warrick’s still walking down the hallway outside his room. 

“War--Warrick!” he blurts out. Even though his voice is back, it’s still damaged. Warrick still doesn’t seem to hear him, though.

He tries again to get up, this time grabbing the bed beside him. He manages to stand halfway up, but his legs wobble and give up, and he’s on the floor again. He shuts his eyes tight as he feels a sob rise and escape his body.

“Nicky?” 

He blinks, and Cisco--no, not his father--Grissom is crouched in front of him, his hand firmly grasping Nick’s shoulder.

“Ciscsom,” he mumbles incoherently, the two men seeming to merge once again in his mind. He reaches out to Grissom, grabbing onto his arm like he did when he was in the hole. 

“C’mon, I’ll help you up.”

Grissom keeps hold of Nick’s arm as he stands up once again, and helps back onto the bed. Nick notices the bed is slightly elevated. He looks down, seeing for the first time that he’s in a hospital gown. Under the bright lights in the room, he finally gets a clear view of the ant bites on his skin. They’re smaller than he thought they would be, although a few of them are as red as he imagined. Some bites have small bandages on top of them, he must have tried to scratch at them.

It does itch like hell. 

“Not easy to stand after lying down for over twenty four hours,” Grissom remarks, ever the observer. 

“Twenty-four hours,” Nick repeats, still staring at the bites. His hands can’t seem to stop shaking. He looks at Grissom, and tries to hide his shock at how  _ drained _ his mentor looks. His eyes look red, his brow furrowed in concern as he stares intently at Nick, also studying the ant bites. He’s seen Grissom after doubles and triples and even a quadruple shift one time, but he’s never seen him like this.

“What took you guys so long?” Nick asks. He says it as a joke, but can’t seem to mask the sob that’s still rising inside of him. The corners of Grissom’s mouth twitch into a sad smile. 

The two share a moment in silence, Nick can’t seem to think of anything to say. He has hundreds of questions, but wonders if Grissom would even have the answers. His eyes scan Grissom’s face, Grissom also seems to want to say something, his mouth keeps opening and closing, but nothing comes out. 

“What time is it?” Nick asks, more to himself than to Grissom, and his eyes start to look for a clock. Whoever undressed him seemed to have removed his watch. 

“It’s six in the morning. You’ve...been in shock for a while,” Grissom tells him. 

“Can’t imagine why,” 

Grissom lets out a soft chuckle, and Nick smiles back at him. Grissom moves a chair over next to the bed, and sits in it. More silence follows, but it feels less awkward than before. This time, Grissom is the one to break it.

“Warrick went to go get your parents,” he tells Nick, and adds, predicting the question Nick was about to ask, “I saw you trying to get his attention when he left.”

Tears well up in Nick’s eyes. He can sense that it’s making Grissom uncomfortable, he never does seem to grasp the concept of human emotions like Nick does. 

“I...thought I was in the...still...and that he was leave--leaving...” Nick starts to stammer, feeling the need to explain himself. Shame seems to shiver down his spine that Grissom had to see him like that, both on the floor and in the hole. He starts to absentmindedly itch at his skin, then stops as Grissom gives him a look. He knows that look well, it’s the same one his father had whenever Nick would do something inappropriate as a child. His lips begin to quiver.

“I know. I’m sorry we had to do things the way we did, back there.”

Grissom’s voice trails off, and Nick finishes the thought for him. 

_ Back in the hole _ . 

Nick nods, scrunching his face closed. He can’t seem to stop the floodgates in his eyes from bursting open. 

“You...did what you had to do. Got me out, didn’t it?” Nick tries to chuckle, but it sounds more like a cry.

More silence reigns between the two men. How far did Warrick have to drive to get his parents? He shudders, thinking of how history seems to be repeating himself. He feels like he’s nine years old again, waiting for his mom to get home. 

“Who--Why--How did you guys find me?” Nick asks, keeping his eyes closed, trying to shove down even more painful memories from bubbling to the surface.

“We don’t have to talk about that now, Nicky. It’s been a long day, longer for you more than any of us.”

“Yeah,” Nick chokes out. As much as the curiosity of who did this, why they did it, how the found him still nags at his mind, he feels a slight relief at Grissom’s reluctance to tell him right now. He takes a deep breath, and everything seems to just crash around him. The panic, the terror, the anger, the full gravity of what happened to him finally seems to catch up with him.

His right hand twitches where the gun was once held against his chin  _ by his own hand _ , and he releases all of the sobs he was trying to keep within him.

“I was--I was gonna do it, Gris,” he cries. “Right before y’all found me, I was gonna--”

“But you didn’t. You  _ survived _ , Nick.” 

Nick nods, eyes still shut tight, tears still flowing. His head throbs, he feels like he’s cried more in the past minute than he has in his whole life. He can feel the bed sink next to him, Grissom must have moved from the chair. 

“And you know what?” 

Grissom grabs Nick’s shaking hand, puts his hand on Nick’s shoulder again, holding it firm like he did before. Nick understands that Grissom wants him to make eye contact, he opens his eyes to meet his, and sees something he’d never thought he’d see in Gil Grissom. 

“I’ve never been more  _ proud _ of anyone in my life.”

Nick nods, shutting his eyes tight again, his body heaving, tears staining the top of his hospital gown. He feels Grissom’s hand release from his own, and tries to fumble to connect with it again, but instead Grissom pulls Nick’s body to his in a tight embrace. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aaaaaaand that's all, folks! Thank you for reading!


End file.
